


family

by cool_dude



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Drinking & Talking, Family Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, One Kiss, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-Weirdmageddon, Reunited and It Feels So Good, Spoilers - Journal 3, Victim Blaming, stanford says "damn" like once, this is more shippy than usual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-26 07:23:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12552196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cool_dude/pseuds/cool_dude
Summary: Stanford has an epiphany while watching Fiddleford play.





	family

Fiddleford’s new house is rather neglected. His bedroom, bathroom, and dining room are all set up in the mansion’s kitchen, right by the antique fireplace that may or may not be a safety hazard. 

Stanford feels as stiff as a straw doll. Sitting down by the fire, Fiddleford offers him a drink. He sniffs the whiskey discreetly, mentally declares it potable, and downs it.

His anxiety gradually morphs into his most frequent rant topic.

“Family. You need a family, Fiddleford. I- I think you should try reconnecting with Tate. Maybe your- your wif-”

Fiddleford rolls his eyes and takes a giant hack into the spittoon. “No chance of that, after the killerbot I sent ‘er.” The expression morphs into something concerningly wistful. “Great piece of work, that robot was.”

Stanford grimaces at the mental images. “Still, I’ve found the company of those related to me to be quite… heartwarming.”

Fiddleford muses on this for a moment. He pops in a new piece of tobacco. “You know, Ford,” he begins thoughtfully. “When I married Kate, all those years ago, I did love her. But love is a funny thing, you know. Those feelings, they went quick as a jackrabbit after a few years. I reckon we only stayed together for Tate’s sake, and even then, I was gone half his childhood.”

“That explains why you never wore your wedding ring,” Stanford notes. Fiddleford’s face squishes into a frown. Darn, did he say something wrong? He’s always doing that.

“... can I play somethin’ for you?” Fiddleford asks, already reaching for the banjo.

Stanford manages a lighthearted grin. “It’s not nine-o'clock yet, I suppose.” Seems a drastic change of subject, but he’d better not offend him more.

Fiddleford looks up briefly and moves his fingers over the frets. He strums a little. His face relaxes, until all its wrinkles fade into a smooth portrait. It’s like a time warp, watching Fiddleford play. He travels until he is that same college graduate, the passionate genius Stanford remembered so fondly. Each time that man’s fingers collide with the strings, it’s like he’s sending waves of yellow light across the room, like he’s pushing some warm fire into every dark corner, like he’s the soft scent of cinnamon and pine. 

Stanford gradually becomes aware of the song. It’s something he would’ve called “boring” earlier in his life, with consistent resolution in major keys. But now he realizes it’s not boring. It’s just what he failed to notice when he was young, what he overlooked in favor of the dark, the disturbing, the so-called  _ interesting _ . 

This song, this feeling, this smell and taste and sound- this is happiness. 

It almost brings tears to his eyes. It brings tears to his eyes. Happiness.  _ Happiness _ .

He’s felt this before, hasn’t he? He’s felt this recently. This is how he feels around Stan and the kids. Around...

…  _ family _ .

He rubs his eyes with the grainy edge of his sweater, and he understands.

Fiddleford’s large spectacled eyes peer up at him. The music’s stopped, Fiddleford is a shrunken old man, in the shell Stanford made. The song is just a song. 

There is still water on his cheeks. He sniffs. He laughs. “Brilliant, as usual, Fiddleford.” His vision swims; he covers his reddening face. “Brilliant.”

Fiddleford sets his banjo by the stove carefully. “I didn’t write that song for Kate, or even Tate. I wrote it for someone else I love very much. Someone… in my family.”

Stanford wipes away the water in his eyes. He has to do it again, and again, rosy cheeks pushing his eyes into squints. He represses the strange urge to laugh like a maniac. He represses the urge to say anything at all.

“You’re right about needing a family, even though it took you so long to realize you did need one.” Fiddleford reaches for Stanford’s shaky hand slowly, which feels cold against his warm one. “It took us both… a long time, as I recall. All those years in college, all those years working together, and all the years since.”

It’s futile to try and stifle the flow of tears now. “I ruined your life, Fiddleford. Without my  _ damn _ interference, you’d be the richest man in the world. You’d be with your wife and son again. You’d be more mentally…” He trails off. 

Fiddleford frowns, as if he’s considering it. “Ford,” he looks up. “Do you… believe in fate?”

Ford is taken aback. “I’m an atheist Fiddleford; you know this. Of  _ course _ I don’t believe in fate.”

Fiddleford’s mouth twists, and he looks away. “I believe in fate. And I believe that everything… that everything that happened happened for a  _ reason _ . Darn it, you know I’d never be happy with my wife; we have nothin’ in common besides our love of Tate! And you know I don’t need money; I was happy on a farm, for Pete’s sake!”

There are so, so many things Stanford could say to negate this argument, to show how harmful his presence had been, but it’s all suddenly knotted in his throat.

Fiddleford just takes Stanford’s other hand and smiles up at him. “We’ve had years to suffer for our mistakes. I think it’s high time we stop hurtin’ ourselves and start bein’ happy.”

The other man is so small, but his hands support Ford like the scaffolding of a tower. In these hands, Stanford ‘s insecurities dissipate like gas. His mind clears like a bright spring day, and finally,  _ finally _ , he can see through Fiddleford’s eyes; he can see clearly, that he is free and seperate from that yellow eye, that he is loved despite his flaws, that  _ his past does not define his future. _

No anxious paranoia taints his thoughts when he says, so earnestly: “You’re absolutely right, Fiddleford- as usual.” 

Fearlessly, he wraps his arms around Fiddleford, leans down, and kisses him. 


End file.
